Hell's Gunman

By Robert Coward

By 1884, Mission, Arizona was a dying town. It had once shown promise as a commercial center between Mexico and the territory, but when the railroad connected Los Angeles to Deming, New Mexico, its fortunes began to wane. A tragic event forced Mission's sheriff of eight years, Jed Dunston, to turn in his badge and leave behind the woman he loves. Weeks later, a timely message from Mission informed him of an unspeakable evil that gripped the town and imperiled everyone he'd once protected. Almost sixty years old and lacking confidence in his abilities as a lawman, Jed fights against the inner fears that haunt him. However, the former lawman doesn't hesitate in his decision. He rides back to Mission with a ragtag posse to face a pitiless, bloodthirsty outlaw and his band of cutthroats. If anyone in Mission is to survive, he'll have to face...Hell's Gunman.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Whiskey Creek Press
• Release date: Jul 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781611606157

Book preview

HELL’S GUNMAN

by

ROBERT COWARD

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

www.whiskeycreekpress.com

Published by

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

Whiskey Creek Press

PO Box 51052

Casper, WY 82605-1052

www.whiskeycreekpress.com

Copyright Ó 2013 by Robert Coward

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-61160-615-7

Cover Artist: Susan Krupp

Editor: Dave Field

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

Dedicated to my mother-in-law, Samma Murphy (Memaw). One of the brightest stars of my life.

Chapter 1

The town of Mission, Arizona was founded fifty miles north of Nogales in 1842. For the next forty years it had served as a freight conduit between the larger towns in the north and southern Mexico. It boasted modest cattle yards to pen herds being driven to Tucson and the rail yards in Deming, New Mexico, once the railways linked up from east to west. From there, the cattle would be transported by train to major processing centers throughout the country.

In 1882, the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway connected Atchison, Kansas with the Southern Pacific Railroad in Deming. This completed a second link to Los Angeles. After that, Mission’s importance as concerned the greater scheme of commerce in the territory began to wane.

What once was a thriving community of more than four hundred people with businesses of every type now began to drift into obscurity. There were many holdouts and several attempts at reviving the economical prospects of the town. Some were successful, others were not. Soon, the extreme southern portion of Arizona, which included Mission, started to become a place where outlaws from Mexico and the surrounding territories would come to hide out, spend their ill-gotten money, or make plans for further crimes. Mission had been spared the worst of it, but those who could tell the changing of times knew the town was in a downward spiral.

There were two small and grubby gambling halls and saloons catering to the worst type of miscreants Mission had to offer. Upstairs were the ladies of the evening that could not only show a cowboy a good time, but could also leave him with a bad case of the clap.

The main drinking establishment in Mission was The Chandelier Hotel, named for the massive fixture hanging from the lobby ceiling. It also served as at least a second-class restaurant for the town.

It was a dry, dusty place to start a community. But it had plenty of fresh water, which was a rare commodity in southern Arizona. The source of the water was an artesian well that was discovered by the Jesuit priests who first settled there. The old stone mission they built still stood and was now used as the city jail. Once the town started to grow and the Jesuits left, citizens took it upon themselves to fortify the mission to provide better protection from the Apache raids. By the time they finished, it looked a lot like an old medieval castle keep. It just wasn’t as big as one. However, it was a solid structure with a massive oak door strengthened by iron plates riveted around its edges and across its width. It may not have served well as a mission, but as an impregnable fort or jail the building had found much worth.

Indians were a major problem in the early days of the mission, and the priests weren’t capable of adequately defending their lives. The citizens weren’t willing to be openly slaughtered, so they went to work. Gun ports were strategically placed in the walls, and any windows were designed small enough so as not even a small child could squeeze through them. The stone walls were so thick they insulated the interior to keep the stifling heat from being overbearing. A stairway led to the roof where a bird’s eye view could be had of the town as it spread out north and away from the jail. The people built the wall up around the roof with a crenellated parapet. This would allow defenders of the mission a portion of protection while shooting down at attackers. Soon, the Apaches decided there were easier victims to be had elsewhere.

It was now the summer of 1884. Mission was slowly dying to progress in other places and was preparing for its place in historical obscurity. Jedediah Dunston was the sheriff of Mission. He was fifty-eight years old and had seen his share of violence as a lawman. Dunston was a no-nonsense man who expected answers when he asked questions. His pistol aim was still good, but his draw was slowed with age. When he made his rounds through Mission he now carried a double-barreled, sawed off shotgun of the twelve-gauge variety. The barrels were only twenty inches long, and the buckshot would create a wide pattern in a hurry when it was fired. Dunston’s right knee had taken a slug twenty years earlier and the damage caused him to walk with a severe limp. Arthritis had set in that required him to wrap the joint in a leather brace he’d designed himself. One of the local leatherworkers constructed it for him, and it helped greatly with his equilibrium.

Jed, as the townsfolk called him, had been sheriff for eight years. He took the job when the last sheriff was gunned down at The Shamrock gambling hall and saloon. Jed was riding through Mission two weeks after the shooting and heard in the hotel the town needed a new sheriff. He’d been a lawman of several locales in Texas, but had a desire to go further west. He hadn’t planned on staying, but Mission suited him.

He made a handsome sum for the day at twenty dollars a week. He lived free at the jail, using one of the four cells as his bedroom. The front office served as both his place of work and a kitchen area. Around the back next to the exterior of the jail was the outhouse for his personal use.

A young man named Able Wellen worked as his jailer. Dunston had convinced the city council to pay Able two dollars a week for keeping the jail clean, providing empty buckets for prisoners to relieve themselves in, and also keeping the outhouse usable for the Sheriff. When Dunston had a prisoner and needed to sleep, he handed the boy his shotgun and told him to stand watch until he woke up. Able never let him down.

Able was almost seventeen and worshipped the ground Dunston walked on. He was a tall lad and very skinny. Able wasn’t too bright, but he knew how to take instructions and carry them out to the letter. He was always dressed in baggy pants that were a couple of sizes two big for his waist. They were held up by ragged suspenders that looked like they had been claimed from a garbage pile. The only shirt he owned was pale blue and threadbare in places. His hair was blond and shaggy, but was usually covered by a worn-out hat his paw owned before he was murdered. Both parents were dead and Dunston took him in when he was orphaned at the age of twelve. Able slept in the hay loft at the livery; compliments of the proprietor, Stan Bottomley.

It was early morning on a Monday and Jed was going over some wanted posters at his desk. Four riders had come into town just after daybreak and he’d seen them while drinking coffee on the front stoop of the jail. Two of the riders had turned back to look at him. They stared long enough for eyes to lock, and Jed didn’t like what he saw. The thick, heavy door to the jail creaked open, and Able walked in with a mop and bucket.

New riders in town, Sheriff, he reported.

I know it, Jed replied, not looking up from his work.

They’re at the Shamrock right now, Able included in the report.

I know it, Jed repeated, irritated at the second interruption.

You gonna check ’em out? the young man asked, almost excitedly.

Jed looked up from the posters.

You gonna clean my jail or jabber all morning?

Able knew by the intonation he’d said too much. He closed the door and started walking to the back portion of the jail.

I was just askin’ a question, he mumbled, disappearing behind the wall separating the cells from the front office.

Jed resumed his search of the posters, but didn’t see a likeness that matched the two who had looked at him. He rose up from the desk and walked over to the gun rack. Jed strapped on his gun belt and tightened the cinch to his thigh. He reached up and took down the shotgun. Breaching the weapon and making sure it was loaded, he locked it back in place and walked to the door. As he opened it, he called out to Able.

Goin’ out.

All right, Sheriff, Able said from the back.

Jed stepped outside and let his eyes get accustomed to the sunlight. The town had been busy for a couple of hours now. The dust was swirling from the activity and the heat was already near stifling. Several freight wagons were lining up outside the livery getting ready for their trek to Phoenix. Most of the goods these days were from Mexico, as were most of the wagon drivers and freighters. After making his survey from that vantage point, Jed walked over to the stables.

Stan Bottomley was busy helping with the draft horses and the rigging, making sure all was in order for the freighters to go on their way. Jed approached him.

Mornin’, Stan, he said.

Stan continued with his work, not bothering to look at Jed.

Mornin’, Sheriff, he replied. What can I do fer ya?

Jed turned and watched the frenzied activity for a few seconds and then answered.

Four riders come in this mornin’, he started. Did they come back and leave their gear and horses?

Nope, was the terse response. All I’ve seen is these damned wagons since sun up.

Much obliged, Dunston said.

Jed began limping toward The Shamrock. As he passed the womenfolk and the odd merchant he would tip his hat and grunt a good morning. His thoughts wandered for a moment as he toyed with the idea of moving on. In his mind he’d stayed in Mission long enough. He had to check with the bank, but he believed he’d saved up a good sum over the last eight years, seeing as how he didn’t have to pay for a room and most of the time the Chandelier would let him eat for free. The city council, such as it was, even bought his ammunition for him. Most of the twenty dollars a week he earned was put in his pocket; at least what he didn’t spend on whiskey or beer.

He stepped into the general store and bought some liquorice from Martha Blanchard. Her husband, Dan, was out back of the store taking inventory. He bid her a good morning with a mouth full of the candy and walked out, resuming his walk to The Shamrock.

Jed stopped at the side of the building and looked over the horses tied to the hitching posts. They were thin and hadn’t had any good feed for a while. Their hooves were unshod and starting to split from hard riding. All the rifles were still in scabbards. From the looks of it, Jed surmised these men weren’t planning on staying long. They were either running from or to something. What, he didn’t know.

He stepped up on the boardwalk and limped the few feet it took to get to the swinging doors. Jed peered inside. The four riders were standing at the bar, each with a shot of whiskey. One was smoking a cigar that looked like he had been working on it for days. It was still early and only two other patrons were inside, save for the bartender—Matthew Bullock. Matt, as he was called, had been the owner operator of The Shamrock for more than thirty years. It had fallen on hard times but he managed to keep it open with the girls he had stashed upstairs. He was a burly man of sixty-five and could take care of himself. He’d learned over the years that it was a necessity for the type of business he ran.

Jed pushed one of the doors open and walked inside, positioning himself at the end of the bar. He laid the shotgun down, barrels pointing downwind, but never took his hand off it. The two riders who’d stared at him before looked over at him again. One went back to his drink. The other continued to survey the situation. The remaining two didn’t look up, but just stood in silence where they were. Matt walked over to Jed.

Can I help you, Sheriff? he asked.

Jed never took his gaze away from the men. Three of them were now looking at him. The fourth, Jed supposed was the leader, kept his head down.

Whiskey, he said, plopping the appropriate amount of money on the bar with his free hand. He waited for Matt to pour the drink. During those few moments one of the men walked over to a table and sat down, giving him a good vantage point; out of the way of the scattergun. Another distanced himself from the two remaining at the bar and sat down on the unoccupied piano bench; drink in hand.

Matt poured the Sheriff’s whiskey and began to wipe down the bar. Jed picked up the glass and downed the shot, eyes still locked on the men. He placed the empty glass back on the bar and wiped his mouth with a shirt sleeve.

How you men doing today? Jed asked, not particular as to who might answer.

We done something wrong, Marshal? the man at the table asked.

Jed chuckled.

I just asked how you were doing. Thought I was being friendly. Jed continued. I’m not a Marshal, though. I’m the sheriff of Mission. This is my town.

The rider at the piano bench leaned back on the exposed keys. A disjointed sound emanated from the instrument.

Well, Sheriff, the man at the piano said, we’re just ridin’ through. We don’t want no trouble.

Jed didn’t think any of these men resembled those on his posters, but their attitude was one he didn’t like.

Didn’t say you did, he said with menace in his voice. I asked how you were doing, and you ain’t answered me yet. Now, I’ll ask you again. How are you doin?

The supposed leader of the men, still standing at the bar, was apparently getting tired of the exchange. He tipped his hat to the top of his forehead and for the first time looked at Jed.

We’re doing well, Sheriff, he said in a slow drawl. We’re doing just fine. Satisfied?

No, Dunston said. I’m not. In fact, I won’t be satisfied until you boys ride out. You go ahead and finish your drinks. Then be on your way.

The rider at the table slowly stood up. The face betrayed his anger. The man who had just spoken saw him in the mirror behind the bar and barked at him.

Will you sit down and take it easy? It was an order and not a request. He’s got a damn scatter gun pointed at me and Wes. Don’t be stupid.

We ain’t done nothin’ wrong! the man complained.

That’s a fact, the now obvious leader of the four said. And we ain’t goin’ to. Understand? Just sit down, Billy; and finish your drink like the man said.

Jed cocked both rabbit ears back on the shotgun. The clicking sounds caused each of the men to tense up.

By god, Billy, the leader said, if you don’t sit down I’ll shoot you myself!

Slowly, the man named Billy did as he was told. The atmosphere began to relax. Jed’s heart was racing. He thought about how he was getting too old for all this excitement.

Finish your drinks, he repeated. And be on your way.

Jed tipped his hat to the men and carefully exited the saloon. Once he knew he was free to turn his back on the place, he sauntered back to the jail, gently returning the shotgun’s hammers back to safe mode.

He went inside and poured another cup of coffee. By now the stove had cooled some from when he stoked up a fire that morning. The brew wasn’t as hot as he liked it, but it was hot enough to steady his nerves. Jed left the jail door open to allow a little air to come inside. Able had used enough soap on the floors to suffocate a horse. He went outside and sat in his favorite chair overlooking main street. Jed was watching to see when the men left, if they were going to leave.

Dunston had seen men like this before. They had no home, no family to speak of, and no soul. They rode from town to town and in between usually tried to find money or food any which way they could; and most of the time it was an unlawful way. Soon they would be stealing horses. The ones they rode in on were in terrible shape and wouldn’t take them much further. Jed figured it wouldn’t be long that he would get a report of horse thievery somewhere and it would probably be them. He would be able to tell now, since he had looked the animals over. If they left them behind, which he knew they would, he could recognize them as once belonging to these men. He only wished they were already wanted with posters in his possession. Without them, there was nothing he could do unless they decided to stand up to him and stay any longer than he had allowed. It was now just a waiting game.

Able! Jed yelled. He could hear him rattling around in the back of the jail.

In a few moments he appeared at the open door.

Yessir, Sheriff?

Go get Lance, he ordered, drinking the last of his coffee. Tell him to bring his gun.

Is it those riders that come in this mornin’? Able asked with excitement.

Jed turned with a scowl on his face.

Will you just do what I tell ya?

Able sped off, running as fast he could to the blacksmith shop. Lance Howard was the local iron worker at Mission and also the part time deputy when Jed thought he might need one. Lance was a big, muscular man and was pretty handy with a hog leg. He had never been known to back down from a fight, and he never refused to help Jed when he called. Lance was in his mid-thirties but looked older from the hard work he did. Jed had finished another coffee, cold this cup, by the time Able returned with Lance. He was still buckling his gun belt when he arrived at the jail’s stoop.

What’s goin’ on, Jed? Lance asked, having finished strapping on his gear.

Four riders down at The Shamrock. Up to no good. Jed explained as he stood up. I told ’em to finish their drinks and ride out. That was thirty minutes ago.

Jed walked inside to retrieve his shotgun. Lance and Able stood where they were, waiting. It only took a few seconds for him to reappear in the doorway.

I guess I better tell ’em again.

Can I come with ya? Able asked.

No! Jed scolded. You keep your ass in the jail. That’s all I need is you lyin’ dead in the street. Jed spat near Able’s feet. Council would fire me for sure. He looked at Lance and winked. Or give me a raise.

Able kicked at the dirt in disgust.

Let’s go, he said to Lance, and the two men started walking to The Shamrock.

They weren’t halfway there when the four riders came out of the saloon. When Jed and Lance were seen coming their way, each man got on his horse and pulled the reins; leading away from the two lawmen. The one named Billy looked back and grinned at them, as if to say he wished they hadn’t left so soon. Jed was glad they did. He and Lance stood off to the side of the street and watched them until they were out of sight.

Is that it, Sheriff? Lance asked.

Yep, Jed replied. You can go back to your smithin’.

Sure thing, Jed, Lance said. You need me again, just send for me.

Will do, Lance. Much obliged.

The two men went their separate ways, and the town was never the wiser that trouble had only slightly been averted. Jed was relieved at how it played out. He limped back to the jail and sat in his chair. He leaned the shotgun up against the wall within easy reach and settled in for a quiet day. Able’s head appeared from the open door.

Can I come out now? he asked.

Jed didn’t even look at him as he surveyed the street activity in front of him.

Yeah, you can come out now, he said, granting permission.

What happened? Able queried.

Nothin’, was all Jed would say. Go on about your business, son. Earn your money or the council will fire you and have my hide.

Yessir, Able said, and he went behind the jail to take care of the outhouse.

Jed sat there for about an hour in uninterrupted silence. It was then he saw the mayor, Tom Tyler, walking his direction. He had a paper stuck in his armpit as he briskly came up to the sheriff. Tyler was a portly man with a handlebar moustache. Jed thought it looked stupid with the fat face that accompanied it. He was the lawyer and accountant for Irish McShane, who owned the biggest cattle spread in southern Arizona. McShane wasn’t like other cattle barons who wanted to control everything within their monetary range. It was enough with him that he was near a town that could supply him and his spread with all the necessary items to keep business going. Jed could count on fingers and have leftovers the number of times he had spoken to the man, or that he had spoken to Jed. If anything happened on McShane’s property, he took care of it himself. As long as it didn’t get within earshot of Jed, he didn’t care what the man did. He had his world, and the Sheriff had his. Irish wasn’t interested in interfering with the city council or how the town was run, as long as he could freely use it as a supply base. If that were to be jeopardized, then Jed was sure McShane’s presence would be quickly known.

Sheriff, Tyler greeted.

Mayor, Jed replied.

Tyler produced the paper and thrust it in Jed’s direction.

Phoenix newspaper for you, he explained. It’s a week old, but for us it’s news.

Jed took the offering and scanned the front page.

I see it’s a might used, he panned.

Well, Jed, he explained, "I am the mayor."

Tyler pulled up a chair and the two men chatted for nearly half an hour. There wasn’t anything special about the conversation. Jed didn’t dislike the man, but he had no real respect for him. As far as he was concerned, Tom Tyler was the face of the future. He believed he could see where the world was heading with those such as him. Soon, men would be slaves to the more educated and to companies like the railroads. Honor and loyalty would be mere words instead of codes of conduct to live by. Jed knew he was becoming a dinosaur in the big scheme of things. The way of the gun would come to an end sooner or later. Men like Jed would be looked down on and shunned, even put in prison for the slightest offence. The free range would be no more, one day, and Jed was hoping he wouldn’t live to see it. Times were changing too fast for his taste. And Tom Tyler exemplified everything about those changes that he didn’t like. Yet, Jed had to admit he was a nice enough fellow; and pleasant to talk to. So, whenever the mayor wanted to chat, he made time for him. After all, it was Tom Tyler that brought him his payday every week.

After the mayor completed his visit, the rest of the day was normal for Jed. The four men hadn’t returned and no other suspicious-looking characters had come into town. The freight wagons left Mission before noon and Jed was sure Stan Bottomley hadn’t finished counting his money. Able had brought the sheriff some tamales and beans from Maria Sanchez’s café. It was located across the street and to the left of the jail.

Maria was a woman in her mid-forties who’d been sweet on Jed before her husband’s funeral was over. As they were lowering him into the grave Maria walked over and asked Jed if he wanted something to eat. He replied that he wasn’t that hungry at the moment and Maria told him that when he was the door would be open.

It wasn’t that Jed was opposed to a poke every now and then, and he certainly thought Maria was a striking woman, though a little rotund. What bothered him about her was how quickly she could get over a man she’d been married to for twenty years. Another thing was that since Jed had turned about forty-five, sex wasn’t a big deal to him anymore. Carlos Sanchez used to tell him, before he up and died, that Maria couldn’t get enough of it. As far as Jed was concerned, Maria would put him in an early grave and start looking again before he was cold. The thought just didn’t set well with him. So, he made sure that Able paid her when she cooked something for him. He didn’t want her trying to collect in other ways.

After nightfall, Jed made sure to check on the businesses in town, whether open or closed, several times before he went to bed. It was almost ten o’clock when he noticed several riders coming in. Even though the streets in Mission were dimly lit, he could make out eight men from his vantage point in front of the hotel. They stopped at the jail and one man dismounted, walking to the door. Jed could hear the rider knocking on it as he made his way to them.

The man turned around and saw Jed coming. He walked to meet him and when he was a few feet away they recognized each other. The man was Jim Huntsman, the Territorial Marshal for the Tucson area. He was a big man in his early forties, renowned as a lawman. Huntsman possessed rugged features that had been carved by the desert of Arizona. He was once a good-looking man, but now his face was weathered and worn. The two men exchanged a warm greeting with firm handshakes.

Jed, how are you? Jim asked, a broad smile on his face.

Tolerable, Jim. And you?

Can’t complain, Jed, he answered, taking off his hat and brushing desert dust from his shirt.

What brings you to Mission? Jed wondered, but had a good idea.

Coffee, was the answer. The two men laughed and headed to the jail. Jed told Jim’s posse to get down and come inside. There would be coffee for everybody.

Jed asked Able to wake Stan so he could take care of the men’s horses and change out any that were needed. A few of the men were grateful to get a spot of whiskey in their coffee to help them stretch their legs. Jim and Jed settled in on the stoop.

I reckon you’re trackin’ four riders, Jed offered, sipping his coffee.

Figured they come through here, Jim said. How long ago?

Early this morning, Jed replied. I didn’t have no papers on ’em so I couldn’t hold ’em. I knew they was a rough sort, though. I wish you’d wired ahead and I woulda held ’em.

Glad I didn’t, Jed, Jim said, shaking his head and looking down. They’re bad ones.

I only got a couple of first names, Jed reported, disregarding Jim’s concern. One was named Wes and another Billy.

"That would be Wes Studley